


A Question of Locale

by days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Possibly Pre-Slash, Pre-Relationship, open end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 21:10:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14941464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: John is looking for a good place to take a date. Sherlock is not helpful.





	A Question of Locale

John had been piling up hotel and restaurants leaflets on his desk, browsing through them occasionally when he wasn't busy helping Sherlock with a case. Of course, after a while, Sherlock had taken an interest, though he tried not to be obvious about it.

Eventually John caught him rifling through his little collection and sat down with a sigh. “Remember that Chinese circus?”

“Hmm?" Sherlock tried his best to pretend that he had not been going through John’s things and that he had no immediate recollection of the disastrous day a couple of years ago. John believed the latter, but was very concerned about the former. 

“I'm looking for a good place to take a date,” he clarified, watching Sherlock school his expression into something resembling both pity and concern instead of surprise which had first flashed across his features. “You know London like the back of your hand. Now I know that you don't really do dates, but, apart from Chinese art smugglers’ pop up theatres, is there anything you might think would make for a good place to have a first date? Something unusual and not obvious?”

Sherlock stared at him. “Angelo’s?”

John chuckled. “I said not obvious.”

“Well, whoever you are taking on that date might not know the place and …”

“Sherlock. There’s got to be somewhere more exciting.”

Sherlock sniffed and threw himself onto the couch. For a long moment he didn’t say anything. 

“A play and drinks after? The Opera?”

“Hmm, the chance of being killed is too high.”

Sherlock glared at him. 

“Fish and chips at the Tower?”

John frowned at him. “Seriously?”

“The London Dungeon afterwards?”

“You’re just wanting to make sure that the first date will remain just that,” John teased and pulled out his phone, looking up restaurant recommendations. When Sherlock didn’t say anything in answer, John looked up again. Sherlock was frowning at him, but when John caught him staring, he turned around to face the wall. 

John smiled to himself and booked a table for two at the newly opened Roof Terrace restaurant across from St. Paul’s. “Found something,” he leaned back, shaking his head at Sherlock’s petulance and went into the kitchen to fix them both something for dinner. 

Sherlock, as so often before, barely touched his food. Usually he talked all the while John ate, but this time he barely paid attention as he scanned newspaper pages for clues on an art theft. When John started putting the plates away, he seemed to emerge from wherever his mind had taken him and he looked at John openly, his eyes wide, as if he had only just seen him standing there next to him. “You haven’t been on a date in a long time.”

“Yeah, that’s why it’s high time.”

“How did you meet?”

John huffed. “A mutual friend.”

Sherlock scoffed and handed John his plate. “Fine, don’t tell me anything.”

John carried the plates back into the kitchen and then returned with a single cup of tea and settled down in his chair, reaching for one of the magazines Sherlock kept bringing home. Sherlock was entirely silent for the rest of the evening and when John said good night, all he got was another scoff. 

The next morning, John shaved carefully and put on a plain button-down shirt and dark blue jeans and added some product to his hair for once. Sherlock hadn’t gotten up apparently, so he left for work without saying good-bye. During the day, he grew increasingly more nervous. What if Sherlock, for once in his life, decided to not interrupt his date? What if he showed up and panicked? What if John had misread all the signs and had completely misunderstood his frequent disruptions and his insistence that John was desperately needed on a job. 

He left work with butterflies in his stomach. He fought the urge to buy flowers on the way and, once he had taken the elevator up to the Roof Terrace, he checked himself over in the bathroom. Exhaling slowly and wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans one last time, he walked out again and asked a waiter to show him to his table. 

He ordered two glasses of wine, and olives and cheese, leaving both untouched when they arrived at his table. He checked his watch and blew out his breath. He had been here for ten minutes. 

Fifteen minutes later, when he finally sipped on his wine, ignoring the urge to check his watch once again, a shadow fell across his table, hiding the setting sun.

“She didn’t show?” Sherlock asked quietly. 

John shielded his eyes from the sun and looked at Sherlock. “How long have you been here?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Ten minutes?”

John’s heart skipped a beat and he cleared his throat. “Sit down.”

Sherlock hesitated, clearly expecting a dressing down from John for crashing yet another date. The more shocked he seemed when John pushed the second glass of wine towards him and held out the plate with antipasti. “You’re late,” John simply said.

Sherlock picked a couple of olives from the plate but he didn’t sit down. “What?”

“I sat here by myself for almost half an hour.”

“Well. She might have …”

John leaned back and looked at Sherlock. He exhaled slowly, trying to regulate his heartbeat. “He … might have.”

Sherlock stopped chewing and frowned at John. “What?”

“He might have joined me the moment he arrived, and not ten minutes later.”

“John? Is everything alright?”

“Sit down, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hesitantly sat down, looking around to see if anyone might take offense. Not that he usually minded. 

“Why are you here?” John asked, watching Sherlock watch him. 

“You haven’t been out for so long and you worried about being in danger so I thought I’d make sure you are okay.”

John cocked his head, signalling him to continue. 

“And now that I am here and you told me that you are meeting a man I dare say it is justified …”

“Oh, because only men are evil?” John smiled into his wine glass. 

“Well, statistically, more men than women have tried to kill you.”

“Never on a date, though,” John popped an olive into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “What do you want to eat,” he finally asked. Sherlock didn’t react immediately as he seemed to still be hung up on what John had just told him. So instead of waiting for him, John stopped a waiter and simply ordered food for them both. 

“Why are you here?” he asked again, once Sherlock seemed to have recovered from the implication of John’s words and nervously dissected a dried tomato on his plate. 

“You did not explicitly ask me not to come?” he tried, avoiding John’s eyes. 

John felt butterflies in his stomach and took another, rather large sip from his wine. Liquid courage was what was needed. 

“Good,” he said belatedly and Sherlock frowned, first at his plate, then at John. 

John couldn’t help but smile, but just when Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, the food arrived. Contrarily to his usual behaviour, Sherlock ate, and he ate in silence, slowly relaxing in his seat. John watched him with a fluttering heart, which gave a start when Sherlock looked up suddenly and their eyes met. John knew then that Sherlock had finally caught on and he smiled at him, ignoring all the alarm bells that went off in his head. His instinct told him to withdraw and hide and to talk himself out of the awkward situation, but he needed Sherlock to know that he meant it. That it was indeed their date. 

“How did you …” Sherlock put down his fork, missing his plate and noisily clanging it against the porcelain. He startled, but it was rather the fact that the noise dared to interrupt his question than him being on edge. 

John inhaled deeply. 

“I’m here,” Sherlock started again, frowning, then blinking at the setting sun for a moment before he looked back at John, “because you …”

“I wanted you here, yes.”

“You are not meeting anyone for a date.”

“Well,” John shrugged. “I kind of am.”

“I don’t …”

John huffed and nervously licked his lips. “You.”

“I’m …” Sherlock leaned forward, scanning John’s face as if he tried to spot a lie or a hidden message. 

“You’re him. You’re the date.”

“But you didn’t ask me out.”

John chuckled. “No. Because I didn’t have to.”

“You knew I’d come.”

“You always do.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock looked away again, his fingers drumming against the edge of the table distractedly. “John.”

“Why are you here?” John asked for the third time, growing slightly irritated that Sherlock seemed to need so much time to finally properly grasp what they were doing.

And Sherlock looked at John as if he had only just realised that it was him sitting there across the table. 

“I’m here because you made me look at your phone to see where you would take your date.”

John shook his head. “Not good enough.”

Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth. Why are you here? Why are you always there when I am on a date?”

“I don’t want anyone to hurt you.”

John leaned back, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “You said that already.”

“Your … your heart,” Sherlock almost whispered, clearly not wanting anyone to hear him except John. “I don’t want you to get your heart broken.”

“So, you interrupt them?”

“Only the ones that aren’t right for you.”

“You’ve crashed every date I have been on since I moved in with you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. 

“You’re supposed to say _obviously_ ,” John said quietly and Sherlock’s eyes widened. 

“You’re not angry?” He sounded truly surprised. 

“Yeah, Sherlock. I did not trick you into coming here so I could berate you.”

“Then why …?”

“Goddamnit, Sherlock. You are a piece of work!” John leaned forward and took Sherlock’s hand in his, squeezing gently. Sherlock’s eyes bore into the back of that hand before he slowly looked at John. 

“But I’m … married to my work. I’m …”

John exhaled slowly and squeezed again. “I know.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, nor did they move. 

When the waiter came to take their plates away, John reluctantly pulled his hand back. “What would you have done if I had met someone else here?”

“Lestrade phoned in a triple homicide earlier.”

“You would have interrupted the date to take me with you?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“What if the date had gone really well? You know, not the heartbreak-impending kind of date? You would have interrupted it anyway?”

Sherlock looked anywhere but at John. After a moment of deliberation he nodded. 

“Why are you here, Sherlock?”

“Lestrade is in need of assistance,” Sherlock almost whispered and John wanted to scream. Was Sherlock really just pretending to be ignorant of his beating heart and his undoubtedly quickened breathing. Had he not felt hot energy seep into his skin where John had touched him? 

“Okay,” John finally said when Sherlock remained entirely still. “Let me just … guess. Tell me if I’m wrong. You meant it when you said that you don’t want me to get hurt. You also meant it when you said that you don’t think anyone I dated during the last three years was the right person for me. You were surprised, but not disappointed, when you heard that I had been waiting for a man.” 

Sherlock’s ears had turned a rather telling shade of pink and he looked up now, meeting John’s gaze with burning eyes. “Go on,” he said. 

“You wanted to be that date. You think you are the right one for me. The one who is not going to break my heart. I’m so much part of your work that dating never even occurred to you because we are as good as married anyway. You also really didn’t mind that I did not date anyone in over a year. You are here, because you want to be here. With me. In this restaurant. Sitting down, eating, drinking wine. Tedious normality. Pedestrian. Perfect.”

Sherlock looked like someone had just opened a door he had spent an hour trying to unlock. Relieved, and somehow at a loss as to what to do with all the keys in his hands. 

“Sherlock. I wanted you here. That’s why I asked you for advice in the first place.”

“And then you left your phone unlocked on the desk when you made dinner.”

“And you didn’t realise I had left it there intentionally?”

“You were distracted. You do these things when you are distracted.”

“Well, I did want you to see it and I did want you to show up.”

“I was relieved that nobody came,” Sherlock admitted, making a face that showed that he knew he should feel guilty, but definitely didn’t. 

“You came,” John smiled and held out his hand again. Sherlock slowly leaned forward and placed his palm against John’s. For a long moment they both looked at their hands. They touched each other so often, and John had touched pretty much all of Sherlock’s body at some point because he needed to check for injuries or patch him up. But none of it had been as intimate as the light touch of their hands just then. 

John twisted his hand a little so he could intertwine their fingers and he could hear Sherlock swallow. 

“John?” Sherlock finally asked, his eyes silver in the fading light. “What happens now?”

John smiled. “Well, usually, at this point during a date, we finish our drinks, then I walk you home and you ask me upstairs for a cup of tea.”

“That means sex, right?” Sherlock had blushed decidedly.

John chuckled. “It _can_ mean tea. It can mean anything you want it to.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and nodded. “Tea sounds lovely.”


End file.
